


Discipline

by carvedwhalebones (fuckyeahlucifersupernatural)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-11 00:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/carvedwhalebones
Summary: RK900 disciplines Detective Reed after he stumbles in late to a crime scene.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt from Anonymous:** _"Gavin/rk900 Gavin is behaving badly at a crime scene one day with rk900 . Gavin keeps calling rk900 a stupid peace of plastic , rk900 has enough of it and decide to teach him a lesson by spanking him in tell he can't take it anymore . rk900 won't stop in tell gavin starts to cry like the little baby he is . ( hugs for crying Gavin at the end)”_

 

“Get out of my goddamn way, will you?”

The forensic team pauses, hearing a familiar voice reverberate through the office floor, walls cheap and impeccably thin. RK900 is the only who continues to work uninterrupted, busy analyzing blood found underneath a desk. 

Detective Gavin Reed is late. Forty three minutes and thirty seven seconds late. It was enough of an oddity for RK900 to make an attempt to call the detective before proceeding without him. The call went straight to voicemail. Another oddity. For all of Detective Reed’s hostile rhetoric, he’s never been late to a crime scene or skirted his duties. There is a twang of intrigue at the deviation from normalcy, but his priorities are clear: examine the crime scene, with our without Detective Reed. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” Gavin’s voice is closer, louder, and abrasive. RK900 knows it’s directed at him, but declines to respond. 

An uncomfortable silence follows after and, then, the scurry of shuffled steps from another occupant in the room. Probably the forensic tech. RK900 is sure Gavin has left in his wake moving from Point A to Point B scurrying techs finding refuge outside of the crime scene. In other words: Gavin Reed is stalling progress. 

“I did,” he finally deigns a reply. RK900 is busy examining the strange dings on the underside of the desk.  He registers the background noise of fabric shuffling, silence, followed by a soft _oh._

RK900 moves from his crouched position, rising to his feet. His face is impassive as he, finally, looks at the detective. He’s more disheveled than usual, his shirt twisted across his torso so the collar is more left centered. His dark hair is mussed, bleary-eyed, nose and eyes red. RK900 strides forward and swipes at the sweat clinging onto Gavin’s throat with a finger, earning a snarl and a hand slapping at his wrist. 

RK900 ignores it, analyzing. 

Gavin’s body is dehydrated and acetaldehyde is coursing through his system. He _was_ blind drunk. Another oddity. There is nothing that occurred yesterday on duty that would have led to such a poor choice of behavior. RK900 idly peruses the detective’s records and social media accounts, overriding two priorities, LED cycling yellow.

Nothing enlightening is appearing.  

“You’re not competent enough to be here,” RK900 concludes, “you should return home and recover.” 

Gavin rubs at his right brow, wincing. He manages to unenthusiastically heave out, “Fuck you. I’m not leaving. I’m here, just tell me what happened.”

“No.” 

“ _No?_ ” Gavin repeats, offended, face scrunched into a scowl. 

“Your presence is disrupting the progress being made. Leave.”

“Fucking make me,” Gavin challenges, the idea seeming to pick up speed because he’s moving closer, pushing into RK900’s personal space, “Yeah — go ahead. See how that’s gonna go with the Captain.” 

They’re chest-to-chest, now, Gavin starting up at him, chin definitely tilted up in a strange attempt to make himself bigger. RK900 tilts his head, sensors picking up the erratic tempo of the man’s heart and the scent of sweat — both recent and old — clinging onto him. He hasn’t showered. He hasn’t groomed himself or made any sort of attempt. Another display of an odd behavior and one out of character. 

“You are painfully lacking discipline, at the moment. I doubt he would oppose my direction,” RK900 responds, voice level and firm. He raises the volume. Just a bit. Enough for Gavin to wince and retreat a step, nursing the side of his skull. 

“Just tell me what happened here so we can move on. Okay?” Strange. It nearly sounded like a plea. 

RK900 refuses to relent. Too much time has been wasted and Gavin’s presence is increasing the odds of jeopardizing the sanctity of the crime scene. He needs to either leave or be dealt with.

“Not until you display competency and discipline. Leave the premises and return when you are capable — ”

“I’m not leaving,” the detective interrupts, voice lowering into a snarl, white teeth flashing, “deal with it, plastic _prick_.” 

“Very well.” A hand finds Gavin’s wrist, giving it a twist and holding it upwards, Gavin’s arm and body nearly careening forward at the odd angle. He’s forced to lean forward, rising on the tip of his toes to relieve pressure. 

“H-hey! Let me go!” the detective is protesting, but he doesn’t fight the hold. He lets himself be led elsewhere in the building, rather than toward the exit. Gavin is released only when ushered into the men’s bathroom, fixing RK900 with a bewildered look. 

“Your behavior is out of place and unprofessional. Your failure to leave has left me no choice but to discipline you myself,” RK900 explains, turning the lock on the bathroom entrance. Gavin’s heart is beating painfully loud, his hand drifting towards his hips, but finds nothing. No holster. No gun. He forgot it. Whatever it may be that has led to Gavin to be in this state, it must have been egregious, RK900 concludes. 

It certainly is a concern, RK900’s priorities shifting in response.

“Give me your belt,” RK900 instructs, the corner of his lips slightly curled in the semblance of a smile — amusement, even, at Gavin’s shocked response. 

He looks puzzled, but his hands clumsily undo his belt, sliding it out of the loops. The android moves forward. Gavin looks like he might take a step back, but decides against it. He does his best to frown. RK900 ignores it, taking the belt out of Gavin’s hand. 

“Stand next to the sinks and take off your jeans. Afterwards, your hands should be flat on the counter,” RK900 continues. He expects resistance. He sees it in the scandalized look Gavin is awarding him with. Gavin licks his lips, mouth opening, and…he stops. The action is aborted. The detective shuffles his way towards the sinks. He undoes his jeans, shoving them down past his knees, revealing black boxer briefs. 

“You’re missing a step,” RK900 reminds cooly. Gavin, slowly, lays his palms flat on the sink counter, facing the bathroom mirror. 

The android quietly moves behind him, folding the belt in half. Gavin’s mirrored reflection looks both perplexed and in awe, bloodshot eyes staring at him. “You tell me when to strike and the temperament of the strike,” RK900 explains, adjusting his position so he’s standing sideways.   
  
“ _Holy shit,_ ” leaves Gavin in a breathy exhale, hardly sounding appalled, “Cyberlife programmed you to do this?!” There is a telling silence that falls after the exclamation, earning a softer swear from Gavin. 

“We only have ten minutes. Then, you will leave.” 

Gavin licks his lips, now staring at his own reflection, “What if I don’t say shit?” 

“Then we stand here for ten minutes.” 

The detective takes a deep breath after a considering moment, “Strike, I guess — _fuck_!” Reed curls inward on himself, hips pushing forward into the edge of the counter when the belt hits his clothed backside. One of his hands have curled into a fist, letting it thud against the counter. It takes a few seconds for Reed to return back in place. 

“Strike.” 

The belt falls sharply, Reed better prepared, only a hiss slipping out past a clenched jaw. 

“Strike.” 

“Harder — _shit, fuck_.”

One of Reed’s legs is starting to shake and sweat is beginning to collect on the inside of his knees. A bright flush has overtaken his neck and cheeks, pupils heavily dilated. His blunt nails are practically clawing at the smooth surface of the counter for purchase.

“Strike.”

“Strike.”

A wounded noise leaves him in a groan, head hanging. Reed is panting heavily, body sloped forward and chest nearly laying completely on the counter. It leaves his backside sticking out, forcing RK900 to take a step back to make room. The android allows it, despite his clear instructions being for only palms to be on the counter.

“Strike.”

Another one of those noises and Reed looks hardly capable of keeping himself up. The detective has opted to letting his forehead rest on the counter, now, shoulders carrying a strange shake. 

It’s only been six minutes. 

“It’s been ten minutes. Get dressed,” RK900 suddenly informs, placing the belt on the counter next to Reed. 

Reed breathes noisily, hardly moving, his fingers making a slow crawl over to the belt. Eventually he stands up, using the front of his shirt to wipe his face. He drops it, shakily bending down to pull his jeans up with one hand. A drawn out hiss leaves him when the jeans rise over his backside. The belt is haphazardly pushed through the loops of his jeans, missing a few. He loosely buckles it. 

“Go home and keep your phone on,” RK900 instructs, briskly moving ahead to unlock and open the bathroom door. Gavin moves stiffly through, giving a grunt in acknowledgement. Then, in afterthought, RK900 includes, “I will check in on you later today.” 

Gavin responds with a middle finger, not even bothering to turn around. RK900 blinks at Gavin’s retreating figure, LED light, finally, shifting into complacent blue at the familiar gesture. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Love it? Is there something you wished there was more of? Tell me in a review!_


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftercare and understanding.

Someone’s knocking on his door.

The sound is muffled thanks to distance, Gavin resigned to the opposing end of the apartment. He doesn’t move. _Shit_ , he hasn’t moved in _hours_. Four hours, give or take. He still is out in the patio with the screen door closed, hogging the ashtray until it resembles a cigarette butt graveyard. He’s been ignoring the mental, blinking light that he needs to take a piss and drink something beyond lukewarm soda. Each quick drag of his cigarette leaves his throat itching.

_Knock-knock-knock._

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, sinking himself further into the flaking, white bench he’s thrown himself onto.

His phone gives an angry buzz somewhere by his feet. Gavin ignores it. It buzzes again, skittering across the bench.

The detective taps at the cigarette, dislodging ash. He stays still, for a moment, turning his ear in the direction of the front door. 

The knocking has stopped, a triumphant smirk curling his lips.  

The screen door abruptly opens with a soft _psssssssssssk_. 

“I informed you — ”

 _“Jesus Christ, what the —?!”_ Gavin’s cigarette does an unfortunate tumble out of his hand, instinctually lunching forward for it. His fingers miss, but his cellphone does a sad flop off of bench, both landing on the floor.  
****

“— I would be checking in,” RK900 announces its presence, voice rising in volume over Reed’s outraged yelp.

“You ever think of knocking?” Reed lashes out, earning a patronizing frown. He ignores it, learning down to snatch up the cigarette. It’s out. It’s not even worth re-lighting. Gavin shoves the cigarette into the ash tray with a disgusted noise before making another graceless lean back down to grab his phone.

“I did. You didn’t answer. I performed my due diligence and made you aware I would be finding other means to get inside,” RK900 continues dryly, watching the detective paw at his phone. 

Gavin gives a suffering sigh as he reads the missed messages. He closes his eyes, leaning back. “Well you checked on me. You can go,” he bites, a hand waving in dismissal.

The fucker doesn’t leave. He just stands in the doorframe, impassively staring down at him. Then, something twitches at the corner of its mouth. Something similar to a smirk ghosts the edge as RK900 opens its mouth, “I understand that ‘checking in’ is an English colloquialism that goes beyond the literal meaning of the word. I recall informing you before — ”

“ _Okay, okay, okay_. Shut up, I get it,” Gavin loudly interrupts. 

“Are you sure? I could continue…”

He pushes himself onto his feet, his legs and feet rolling in numbness, each step towards his house leaving him with that muffled pins-and-pricks sensation. He, purposely, ignores the soft throb that scours his backside - a not so quiet reminder that has him inhaling sharply. “Har hee har, fuck you,” Gavin covers in a huff, a hand pressing into RK900’s chest to move him out of the entryway. The android gives a few steps back, staring curiously at his hand.

“I brought you soup,” RK900 adds, closing both the screen and sliding door. 

Gavin casts RK900 with a wary look before looking about the room. His eyes settles on the plastic bag on the coffee table in the living room. 

“Why?”

“Last I checked, you were dehydrated. I’m, also, assuming you have yet to feed yourself. This will help you recover,” he informs, blinking at the detective. There is a considerable pause; the LED light on RK900’s skull cycles yellow before returning blue. RK900 adds quietly, “Unless there is something else you would prefer…” 

Gavin stares, feeling the skin on his throat go warm. The becoming bruises stretched across backside pushes itself further to the forefront of his mind - hot and vivid.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

“I…I gotta take a leak. I’ll be back,” he stumbles over his own tongue, making a quick turn and shuffling his way to the bathroom. He ends up closing it too quickly, the door shutting nosily in its frame. He drags a hand over his face before digging at the sleep in the corner of his eyes. 

A flip of the bathroom lights spit back a haunting image of sunken in eyes, pale pastiness of little sleep, and an, overall, disheveled attire of an old college shirt and loose sweats. He leaves his reflection to relieve himself before washing his hands and the thin sheen of sweat across his face. He tries to flatten the cowlick in his hair, rummaging for a comb. It does nothing to change his haggard appearance, but it’s the most he’s done since his arrival home. Maybe he should put on some deodorant — 

Gavin makes a tight-lipped face at his reflection, flipping the lights off.

Leaving the bathroom, he finds RK900 still there, but he’s staring at the walls of his living room. Gavin stiffens, but moves towards the coffee table, looking inside the bag. He pulls out a plastic container of what looks like chicken noodle soup and a spoon. Gavin eases himself gently onto the couch, careful not to sit on the larger, bruised portions on his backside. He pops the container open when he finds a middle ground.

“…your space here is very different than the one at the station,” RK900 reflects, staring at one of the minimalist movie posters perched on the wall.

Gavin slurps at the soup, answering absently, “There’s nothing on my desk.”

“Precisely.” 

Gavin rolls his eyes, using the spoon less and less as he tilts the container against his lips, drinking in greedy gulps. RK900 continues its gallery walk through Gavin’s apartment.

“You always recording? In that head of yours,” Gavin asks after a moment, sacrificing a hand to search for the television remote. He finds it between the cushions, letting it tap gently against his own skull in emphasis, “Are you always recording and feeding it back to Cyberlife? Some _Big Brother is watching_ you deal?” 

“That function is only active when I am on duty. I am not on duty, now, so it is off.”

Gavin’s stomach drops, his spoon slipping from his fingers and sinking into the container. _Fuck_. This morning counts as being on duty. 

Gritting his teeth, shifting in discomfort, he sets the soup down.  RK900 is watching him, head tilting in inquiry. “Uh…” he begins, clearing his throat, feeling far too warm in his sweats. “Was…it recording when…” 

“Yes.”

 _“Holy shit, fucking no,”_ he whooshes out, moving the heels of his palms into his eyes, pressing them deep enough to leave him seeing color behind closed lids. 

“It wasn’t sent, if that is your concern,” RK900 continues, voice closer. The couch dips next to him and he drops his hands on his lap. Gavin sinks into the back of the couch, sighing heavily in relief. “Some…strange error occurred. I’m sure it’s just a minor hiccup,” adds, posture erect and hands neatly folded in his lap. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ liar,” Gavin grins, earning a flicker of yellow and a hint of smirk in turn. “Holy shit, I… Wait, so, is it deleted?”

Yellow, again, but it’s staying. The detective tenses when it shifts to red. “No, it is still there. I’ve decided to keep it,” RK900 responds, but his voice is not in that familiar, even rise and fall. It sounds more like RK900 is mulling and chewing over his own words. 

Gavin scoots closer, that anxious drop in his stomach returning, “I’m telling you now. If you think about using it against me — ”

RK900 awards him with a scalding frown, firmly cutting in, “ _Careful,_ detective.” Gavin bites his tongue, eyes flicking up to the still-red-LED. “I am not planning to use it against you. I simply wish to keep it.”

Gavin curls his fingers on his lap, listening to the rising roar of blood pounding in his ears. “Why do you want to keep it?” he asks, sounding winded, not even able to keep eye contact with the android. 

“I don’t know yet,” RK900 responds, truthfully. The red fades into yellow and Gavin doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to add, so he turns on the television, letting the mindless chatter of the news fill the space around them.   
  


**101010101010101010**

“What happened this morning?”

They’re both watching a news reporter chattering away about a fire that broke out south of Detroit. It’s coverage on loop. Gavin mindlessly stares at it, waiting for RK900 to say something. He turns his head, arching a brow, only to find RK900 looking at him expectantly. 

 _Oh._ He didn’t ask the question. RK900 did. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ the same thing?” he defensively huffs out, shifting in his spot on the couch. 

RK900 hardly reacts, “I was not the one who walked into a crime scene hungover.” Gavin works his jaw, breaking eye contact to glare at the television. “What happened this morning?” the android tries again. 

He defiantly stares ahead, buying into his own stubbornness by crossing his arms across his chest. 

Gavin catches movement after a few minutes pass. It’s just enough for him to turn his eyes downward, watching the careful, but deliberate placement of RK900’s hand on the space between them. Somehow it’s that that makes his shoulders bend, sighing noisy through his nostrils. He moves one of his own hands to rub his forehead. 

“I’m gonna be honest,” Gavin begins, eyes still trained on the television, “I thought for sure Elijah sent you to the precinct to fuck with me.” He drops the hand from his forehead, “Maybe to apologize, who the fuck knows with him. But…you don’t even know, do you?” He risks looking at RK900, finding a quiet display of confusion, LED a throbbing yellow. 

“Elijah Kamski?” RK900 questions, giving a slight shake of the head, “what relation or interests would Cyberlife’s CEO have with you?”

Gavin gives a terse smile, voice dipping and rising with warning, “I’m gonna pretend that one wasn’t meant as a fuckin’ jab.” He gestures at the android’s head, “What’s his mom’s last name.”

“Why is that relevant?”

“Humor me,” Gavin twists so he’s sitting sideways, crossing his arms across his chest.

He watches the android focus on a spot on his shoulder, searching. His face is pinched off, strangely looking all too human and real. Grey eyes find him, brows slightly raised, “…Reed.” 

Gavin nods, giving a slight bow, “ _Ta-fucking-da_.”

“This isn’t in…any of my accessed databases,” the android comments, sounding genuinely bothered by the lack of information.

“Yeah…figured,” Gavin retorts bitterly, shrugging his shoulders, “our last talk didn’t exactly inspire brotherly love.” 

Gavin gives a final glance at RK900, engaging in a silent debate with himself. 

_Shit, here we go. Might as well._

“My mom… _ou_ r mom” he begins, staring at a spot next to RK900’s ear, “had her first stroke when I was fourteen. Out of the blue. No one expected. Elijah must have been…shit. Already at the university, at this time. I can’t remember, exactly, I just don’t remember him being around.” He unfolds his arms, picking at his sweats, before folding his arms tightly back to his chest.

“I…you know, my mom would break her fucking back to visit him. Send him shit. Anything,” he adds, just because he needs to. He can’t understand why, but he needs to. “Anyways, uh, so there were some memory problems afterwards. Small stuff. Forgets why she got dressed, like she’s going to go out or…car doors still wide open from when she took the groceries out. Small shit.” 

Gavin goes quiet, jaw tight, turning so he’s looking at a spot further away from RK900. He can stop. He can hiss and demand the tin can to leave. He can still do it now. It’d be too fucking easy —

“Then another stroke. She just couldn’t process simple things, let alone complex…problems. I’m — _god_ — I don’t know how old I am, but I can’t take care of myself, let alone, understand what’s going on. Docs are saying it’s vascular dementia and…I have no clue what to do,” he starts to ramble, his back and throat feeling tight, “Elijah sends money. _Can you fuckin’ believe it_. He’s, now, some big shot — _a teenager_ — and he can send money and people to help about in the house. It’s surreal.

“But it was this day —  July 15th, 2018 — she forgot me. She forgot who I was.”

He falls silent and a part of him is thankful RK900 is quiet. He doesn’t want to hear pity. Doesn’t want to feel sympathy. He sure as hell doesn’t want advice. 

The potential that might have came to pass as him grinding his teeth, adding through a roughened whisper, “Older me gets that she recognized I was someone important in her life, but she forgot me. Nothing is more shitty than the feeling that you’ve been forgotten and you can’t do anything to make them remember.”

He’s practically chewing on his tongue, at this point, feeling blood bloom in his mouth. There is more, but he’s done. He’s done, he’s done, he’s done. He’s willing the pinprick sensation surrounding the corners of his eyes into nonexistence. RK900, still, is quiet. 

God, what a fucking mistake. He should have kept his fucking mouth shut. 

“I didn’t forget about my promise,” RK900 cuts through the catastrophic thinking, “or you.”

Gavin dares to look back at RK900, surprised and caught off guard. RK900’s LED light still yellow. 

He gives him a hard look before it softens, nodding.   

“Yeah, you didn’t.”

For the first time, Gavin Reed actually stares at the android. His jacket is obnoxious with its illuminating markings, loudly warning all it’s far from human. But then there is that sharp cut of a jaw, the thin pink of lips, and grey eyes staring at him with a familiar intensity. His forehead is creased slightly, the subtle hint of…maybe concern. Curiosity. Something.

Gavin wipes his nose with the back of his hand, asking, “You sure you’re not recording.”

A slight tilt of the head, brows furrowing, but RK900 nods, “Yes, I am certain.”

“Good,” Gavin huffs as his hands lunge forward, framing the edges of RK900’s jaws. He uses his jaw as an anchor to pull him forward, rising up to press his mouth against the android’s. He’s surprisingly warm and lips are soft. Real. He lets his nails dig into the smooth flesh of his jaw, pressing his mouth with a bit more urgency. All he gets is a soft sound — like the fast whirling of machine parts or…maybe a sigh? 

“You’re supposed to kiss me back, you tin-can-prick,” Gavin growls against his mouth, eyes still closed.

RK900 does just that. He kisses Gavin back, the LED light, finally, turning blue. 

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Wish there was more of something? Tell me in a review!_


End file.
